Page 25 of Carrick
Instead, I reached out and wiped the last smudge of grease from her jaw with my thumb, dragging it slowly across her skin like I had any right to touch her that gently. I told myself it was practical. Just cleaning her up. Nothing more.
But my hand lingered too long.
There was something about her that pulled at me—sharp, sudden, and impossible to ignore. I didn’t do attachments. Didn’t invite complications. Didn’t make a habit of craving things I couldn’t name.
And yet—here she was. Standing in my space. Getting under my skin. Looking at me like she could see something I wasn’t ready to admit was there.
Maybe it was just hormones. Hell, maybe it was stress, or proximity, or the kind of loneliness that settles in your bones when the world starts to feel like a locked room.
But the pull was real. Heavy. Constant.
My lips hovered close to a line I didn’t dare cross—because once I tasted her, I knew I wouldn’t stop.
Her eyes fluttered, just for a second.
“What’s stopping you?” she whispered.
I took a step back. “Respect, for starters.”
Her brow lifted, sly. “That’s what we’re calling it now?”
I huffed a quiet laugh. “You’re impossible.”
She smiled. “You’re intrigued.”
“You’re dangerous.”
She hopped off the railing, bare feet barely making a sound on the wood. The flannel slipped off one shoulder, and she made no move to fix it. “So are you. That’s what makes this fun.”
We stood there a beat too long, the air taut with heat, the space between us humming with a tension I didn’t trust. I didn’t move.
She turned for the door, then glanced back. “You coming?”
“In a minute.”
She just nodded and slipped inside, leaving me alone with the wind, the distant murmur of voices in the trees, and the slow, smoldering ache in my chest.
There wouldn’t be peace with Bellamy here. Only fire.
And God help me—I was starting to crave the burn.
It was latewhen I came back in, the quiet outside easier to stomach than the storm still echoing through these walls. Sunlight spilled gold across the floor, catching dust motes and the ghosts of dinner—temporary calm in a house that never held still for long.
I poured a glass of water I didn’t drink, leaned against the counter, and stared through the window without seeing. Her voice still lingered—bold, unapologetic, laced with just enough danger to keep me on edge. She hadn’t softened. Hadn’t shrunk. She met me—and I hadn’t realized how starved I was for that kind of clarity.
I found her in the library minutes later, sprawled in an oversized chair like it had been made for her. One leg over the armrest, the other tucked beneath, hair a mess of restless fingers, book open in her lap. Sunlight washed over her bare legs like a dare. She didn’t look up. Just turned the page—slow, deliberate, unbothered. Like fear had never touched her. Like she wasn’t the most dangerous thing in the room.
“What’re you reading?” I asked, my voice coming out rougher than I intended.
“Porn,” she replied without hesitation.
I blinked. “Classy porn or filthy porn?”
Her lips curled into just the edge of a smile. “The kind that understands pacing, consent, and well-structured aftercare.”
I huffed a breath through my nose. “You read your porn for the plot?”
She finally looked up. Met my gaze with the kind of calm that shouldn’t have made my stomach clench. “I read it for the negotiation scenes. The character arcs. The impact of a perfectly timed ‘yes, Sir’.”
